The Kindness Curse: Magic to Spare, #1

By Michelle L. Levigne

Merrigan wasn't really an evil queen. Her royal siblings referred to her as the brat, and she lived down to it.

 

However, she was married to an evil king. When he lost a fight with a magic apple tree and got himself killed, she did whatever she could to hold onto the kingdom. Including lying to a powerful seer.

 

Big mistake.

 

Merrigan was cursed: turned into an old woman, she was doomed to wander until she learned to care about others. With the aid of a magic book named Bib, she encountered a mermaid trying to regain her tail, a soldier with a magic tinderbox, a merchant obsessed with finding magical cloth, a warehouse full of orphans, and a princess allergic to peas.

 

Forbidden to retrace her steps, she moved from kingdom to kingdom, and totally by accident helped others find their happily-ever-after.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ye Olde Dragon Books
• Release date: Jun 1, 2021
• ISBN: 9781952345364

Michelle L. Levigne

On the road to publication, Michelle fell into fandom in college and has 40+ stories in various SF and fantasy universes. She has a bunch of useless degrees in theater, English, film/communication, and writing. Even worse, she has over 100 books and novellas with multiple small presses, in science fiction and fantasy, YA, suspense, women's fiction, and sub-genres of romance. Her official launch into publishing came with winning first place in the Writers of the Future contest in 1990. She was a finalist in the EPIC Awards competition multiple times, winning with Lorien in 2006 and The Meruk Episodes, I-V, in 2010, and was a finalist in the Realm Award competition, in conjunction with the Realm Makers convention. Her training includes the Institute for Children’s Literature; proofreading at an advertising agency; and working at a community newspaper. She is a tea snob and freelance edits for a living ([e-mail] for info/rates), but only enough to give her time to write. Her newest crime against the literary world is to be co-managing editor at Mt. Zion Ridge Press and launching the publishing co-op, Ye Olde Dragon Books. Be afraid … be very afraid.  www.Mlevigne.com www.MichelleLevigne.blogspot.com www.YeOldeDragonBooks.com www.MtZionRidgePress.com @MichelleLevigne Look for Michelle's Goodreads groups: Guardians of Neighborlee Voyages of the AFV Defender NEWSLETTER: Want to learn about upcoming books, book launch parties, inside information, and cover reveals? Go to Michelle's website or blog to sign up.

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Ye Olde Dragon Books

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COPYRIGHT © 2021  BY Michelle L. Levigne

ISBN 13: 978-1-952345-36-4

PUBLISHED IN THE UNITED States of America

Publication Date: June 1, 2021

Cover Art Copyright by Ye Olde Dragon Books 2021

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Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author's imagination, or are used in a fictitious situation. Any resemblances to actual events, locations, organizations, incidents or persons – living or dead – are coincidental and beyond the intent of the author.

Chapter One

I hate magic. I hate majjians, Merrigan said for what felt like the thousandth time since the seer, Clara, had turned her world upside down.

She tripped over another branch across her path through this unending, dark, tangled forest. Six hours ago, she had been riding in her carriage, following a tidy plan to save her kingdom. All she needed was a little cooperation from a seer who owed the late king of Carlion some loyalty. Her caves were in his kingdom, after all.

Merrigan stopped short, stunned to see sunlight and a road a few steps away. It wasn't much of a road, packed dirt full of ruts, and a ditch between her and it.

Five hours ago, her carriage stopped in front of the series of caves where Clara consulted pools of vision.

More than four hours now, Merrigan had stumbled through a tangled, shadowy forest, with birds shrieking overhead and squirrels and other creatures running through the branches. She was positive the roots reached out on purpose, to trip her.

Clara had done this to her. Threw her out into the forest, so far she couldn't find her way back to her carriage. Put her in these rusty black, dowdy clothes. Granted, she was a widow, but she was the queen. She had a right, a duty, to dress stylishly. At least Clara had changed her light slippers to heavy black boots. Sometimes, unfortunately, common sense and comfort did trump style.

Her legs ached and her joints creaked and her arms felt too thin. Even her hair felt wrong. She couldn't adjust the thick, canvas strap slung across her chest, and the heavy carpetbag bumped her hip with every step. Her arms simply wouldn't cooperate. She felt hollow, drained. What had Clara done to her? And why?

Everything blurred from the point the woman stepped from the shadows and looked at Merrigan with those depthless, pale eyes. Still, the implication was painfully clear.

I'm cursed, Merrigan whispered. Getting across the dratted ditch in front of her was far more important than remembering what that arrogant majjian had said to her, just before rainbow streaks of magic twisted around her. A thousand thorns shredded her clothes and skin, then dropped her in a muddy patch of open ground in the center of the forest.

The sunshine slanted down at an early afternoon angle on the rough road. More like an overgrown path. Perhaps this was a lane to the main highway. She cringed at the mental image of someone from the court in Carlion seeing her here.

What was that creaking noise, rattling and dragging, coming toward her? Merrigan looked over her shoulder, anticipating some horrific monster made of bits and pieces, animated just long enough to torment her. Yet nothing moved in the shadows. The sound didn't come from the forest. Was it too quiet?

All except for the sounds of frogs.

Merrigan shuddered and focused on the road so she wouldn't hear if those frogs dared to speak to her. She had ordered all the frogs in Carlion turned into frog legs for breakfast, to silence them. She had grown sick of frog legs long before the kingdom ran out of frogs. Yet she still sometimes heard frogs creak-croaking her name, in the stillness between waking and sleeping.

No, no, no, she whispered, and turned to face forward. She refused to look down into the ditch, if any frogs hid there.

Movement to her right wrung a tiny shriek from her. Was that a wagon? Yes, it was, and the source of the sound. Not a monster.

She had been an overly imaginative fool. Leffisand would laugh, if he could see her now. Of course, if her late husband could see her now, she wouldn't be out here in the forest, would she? She wouldn't need to consult a seer to fix the problem of having no heir.

Fury helped Merrigan take that leap to cross the ditch.

Her legs betrayed her, just like everything else today. She hit her knees on the edge. An unqueenly shriek escaped her. She dug her fingers into the dirt and debris and stopped her slide backwards. Thuds and voices cut through the panicked heartbeat in her ears. Big, strong hands caught hold of her arms with bruising force and lifted her up with astonishing ease.

What had happened to her, that she was so thin and frail?

Here, now, Granny, be careful. The man smelled of metal and salt and the stables. He chuckled as he slung her half across his shoulders and strode down the road a few steps. She landed with a thud and a squeak on the back end of the wagon. What are you doing way out here by yourself?

Here? She looked down the road ahead of her. Where am I?

You're on the main trade road between Schoebern and Wyndalbern.

Where? She shook her head when the big man frowned at her like she was an idiot. What kingdom is this?

Bern-Lyceum.

That's—that's on the other side of the world!

"What do you mean, other side?"

Bern-Lyceum is on the western continent. Armorica is the center of the world.

If you say so. He spat, barely turning his head. Laughter bubbled up behind her, and she turned enough to see four rough, bearded male faces, all of them tanned and dirty, with dirty hair and sloppy caps. Peasants, of the lowest sort.

I know so.

Yeah, and if you're so smart, why didn't you know what road you almost fell off of into the ditch?

I need to get to the nearest port. Dratted majjians! How dare they interfere? How dare they send me flying across the world? The inconvenience. The lack of respect! Merrigan muffled an unqueenly shriek. She wished he stood closer to her, despite the peasant aroma. She wanted to kick this sneering, filthy man. All the trees she had struggled past. Especially Clara.

She would like to kick Leffisand, for going to war with a magic apple tree and getting himself killed, so she had to deal with all these inconveniences and indignities.

The nearest port, eh? That's a long walk, Granny. Heading in the wrong direction, too.

Oh, what do you know?

More than you. He grinned, revealing several dark teeth.

You will take me to the port.

I will, eh? And why should I?

Because I am the queen of Carlion, and I must return to my kingdom immediately.

Should take you to a healer. Addlepated crone.

I am not talking nonsense. She pulled herself upright and gave him her most queenly glare of disapproval. You will take me to the nearest port. Immediately.

The idiot laughed, bending down with the effort, and putting his face in her reach. She slapped him. His laughter stopped short and he rubbed his cheek, visually measuring her head to foot.

Should slap some sense into you, but one as ancient as you would probably break in half, turn to dust. He took another step back. Probably some faerie trick. Push us hard until we do something rude, then slap a curse on me and mine. He turned, glaring at the entire forest. Won't fall for it, that I won't! The word's getting around. You faerie folk are too big for your britches. Day's coming, you get judged like you been judging all of us.

Merrigan shivered, remembering angry old women, shouting at her mother on the steps of the palace of Avylyn. She remembered the things Nanny Tulip had said in the quiet of dusk, and the things she learned from the dark, old books her nanny put under her pillow, to fill her dreams and teach her while she slept. She agreed entirely. The faerie folk and other magical-gifted folk—the majjians—were unforgivably cruel, judgmental, and arrogant.

The man caught Merrigan around her waist and set her back down on the rough road with a thump. I won't be falling for no tricks and judgment from faerie folk. Ain't going to give you the last of my food and water, and ain't going to curse you, even if you do sound half-mad. Just going to leave you where I found you.

But I am the queen of Carlion. I order you to help me!

Keep telling that tale. He stomped to the front of his wagon. You'll get a ride to the madhouse. He climbed up onto the driver's bench and clucked to his massive, muddy horses.

The old man with him stood up enough for Merrigan to see his hunched back and bald head. He muttered something, and the young men with him guffawed.

Great-grand says you aren't even pretty enough for him! one of them called, as the wagon started forward.

How dare you! Merrigan ran after the wagon a dozen steps, though she wasn't quite sure what she wanted to do.

Just a wrinkled old crone. Not enough of you for tinder, he called. More guffaws rang out, bouncing off the trees and mud.

Merrigan stopped, her knees threatening to fold. She trembled so, she feared if she sat down she would never get up again.

I'm not, she whispered, as the wagon bumped down the road and faded into the distance. I'm tall and raven-haired, with gray eyes and roses in my cheeks and I can dance all night and all day until the musicians beg for mercy. She shuddered, fearing those brute peasants had been speaking the truth. The clothes she wore were certainly fit for a crone.

After thinking until her head hurt, Merrigan turned and made her way up the road in the opposite direction. She certainly didn't need to meet those brutes in the next town and have them laughing at her and pointing fingers. Half an hour later, a family of farmers in a much cleaner wagon, pulled by two smaller horses with flowers woven into their manes, approached from behind her. A man with a cheerful voice called out greeting to her and offered her a ride before she could even think to ask. The farmer and his sturdy wife and three daughters, all of them browned by the sun and almost unbearably cheerful, addressed her as Granny, with some respect. That confirmed, but in a nicer way, what the brutes had said. The girls adjusted the sacks of cotton and fleece filling the wagon, which they were taking to town to sell, to make a soft seat for her. They offered her a cool drink of water from a clay jug and included her in their unbearably cheerful chatter about all the things they wanted to do when they were in town.

Merrigan was still smarting badly from the mockery of the brutes in the first wagon, so she kept her silence and let them believe she was tired. Their consideration for her comfort was most gratifying. Yet these people were strangers, not her servants. What was wrong with them, to be so kind to a total stranger?

When they reached the town, the smallness of it stunned her. The way the girls had talked, she expected a major city, with an enormous merchant district. This place boasted only four streets of merchant and artisan shops. She counted only four inns, a barracks and a courthouse. Merrigan didn't doubt the circuit judge only rode out here once every four moons. There was a town square, with a well, a dancing floor, and a dais for musicians. How could the girls have been so pink-cheeked with excitement over ... this?

She forgot her disdain for this disappointment that called itself a town when she stepped down from the wagon. She looked down into a watering trough between her and the steps up to the raised walkway around the town square. Merrigan stared, horrified, at the sagging jowls and pale skin, the red-rimmed eyes that looked like ashes rather than the dusky crystals praised by simpering courtiers. Leffisand had always teased that he preferred her eyes filled with sparks, ready to flame with righteous indignation. Her eyebrows and eyelashes were nearly nonexistent, her nose was twice as long and had a definite downward hook. She saw a protruding mole on her chin, another on her cheekbone and a third between her eyebrows. Her hair had once been so lustrous thick and dark that court poets described it as midnight velvet stolen from the skies. Now it was thin to the point she feared she had bald spots, and that peculiar shade of white that was no color at all.

Clara had indeed cursed her. Who would ever believe her when she said she was the queen of Carlion?

Yet that filthy brute who accused her of working with faeries had given her an idea. People still expected to be rewarded by majjians if they did outstanding things or ridiculously simple kindnesses. Didn't they? If the folks hereabouts thought faeries were interfering, then she could convince the fools that helping her would earn them a reward from the fairies. Or hedge witches. Or minor enchanters. Or faerie godmothers.

If all else failed, she could follow the stories of magic at work until she found the nearest majjian and request help. As long as that person hadn't heard what Clara of the Pools had done to her. There had to be some rivalry among majjians. If she was lucky, she would find someone with a grudge against Clara, and convince them to help her to spite the seer.

Are you all right, Granny? the farmer's wife asked, gripping Merrigan's elbow as if she thought she was about to fall over.

Perfectly fine. Just thinking deep thoughts.

Where do you plan to go from here?

I would like to see the world. Now that my husband is gone, and his property has gone to his kinfolk. She caught her breath, knowing that was happening in Carlion right that moment.

She had never met any of Leffisand's relatives, other than his wretched healer cousin, Rafal, until the funeral. The greedy graspers insisted Leffisand was an evil, scheming brute who had exiled them. They were likely stripping the palace of its riches. That horrid Rafal had likely proclaimed himself king. Did anyone pity her, as the childless widow? No. She had no claim to the throne because she hadn't given Leffisand a child. So she had gone to Clara for help. Why did the woman take offense that she had lied about being pregnant, so she could stay queen? How hard would it have been to give Merrigan a child conceived through magic? Why was it so horrid a thing?

What right did Clara have to call her selfish and cruel and arrogant, and condemn her to wander the world until she learned kindness? A queen who was kind and generous was weak, simply asking people to trample over her. Kindness would make her a target for the cruel and arrogant and selfish.

Just like her mother, Queen Daylily. Hadn't being kind ultimately killed her mother?

Yes, she said, catching her breath, fighting not to shudder with her fury over the injustices that had hit her, one after another, until a lesser woman would have crumpled. I want to see the world. I want to find magic and wonder and see incredible things.

Well, you are equipped for travel. Do you have a cloak for when it rains? The farmer's wife gestured at the heavy bag that had been hanging at Merrigan's hip this entire time.

Of course, she hadn't looked into it. Who had time, when they were struggling to escape a barbaric forest and find civilization? Merrigan let the farmwife check her possessions, to see if she was supplied. She had a shawl, extra stockings, extra underclothes, a spare shirtwaist and skirt, an eating knife, and a few slim bound volumes. Merrigan couldn't believe Clara could be so kind, and knew her love of books. A moment later, she knew she had been right. The first book was a collection of homilies on thinking virtuous thoughts and acting with generosity and honor.

The other two volumes were poetry, and tales of the actions of majjian folk. Merrigan wondered if the book had been there before or after she resolved to find someone with magic to pity her and help her. Was Clara taunting her, helping her, or warning her?

The farm family insisted she should share their dinner at the finest inn in town. Then they asked a merchant friend to help her on her journey, by letting her ride in his wagon to the next town on his route. Merrigan thought that was highly generous of them, and quite unexpected. She was just stunned enough to listen to the prompting from her childhood memories. Her first nanny, Starling, had gently scolded her to always say her thanks. No matter who had been kind to her. No matter how grand or small the gift. She thanked her benefactors with graciousness far above their station, climbed into the back of the merchant's wagon, and fell asleep.

Oddly, she dreamed about the farmer family on their journey home in the moonlight. A star fell from the sky. The girls cried out with childish pleasure and made wishes for each other's happiness. They drove up the lane to their farm and found their dogs digging in the garden, just uncovering a small wooden chest. When the farmer pulled it out of the ground, he found it full of coins as silver as the light trailing after the star.

Merrigan woke feeling quite discontent. Perhaps it was just a dream, but she almost wished she had accepted the offer to go home with them. Were they so foolish they would have shared the treasure with her? With just a handful of those silver coins, she could have hired a carriage to take her to the nearest port and booked passage to Armorica on a fine ship.

Yet what good would it do her to return to Carlion, when it was no longer her home?

Perhaps she should go home to Avylyn?

Oh, yes, return in this wretched state, to live in hiding and shame until Father persuades some majjian to restore my proper face and form? She snorted in a most unqueenly manner.

Awake back there? the merchant called from the front of the long, enclosed wagon. He sounded far too jolly for so late at night.

In point of fact, when she climbed out from the interior of the wagon, Merrigan found she had slept the night through and it was early morning, that sparkling time when dew covered everything. She settled on the long driver's bench and allowed the merchant to offer her some breakfast: weak, sweet wine, an apple, and a hunk of bread spread with sweet, soft cheese. His assistants, who had slept on the flat top of the wagon, called down good morning to her and chattered nonstop about the town up ahead of them. It was much larger than the one she had left behind. They were sorry to tell her she was still several days of travel away from the nearest port. One said he admired her for following her dream to see the world, and he wished her strong legs and the endurance to see everything her heart desired. Merrigan thanked him regally, taking the blessing at face value, no matter how crudely stated. Perhaps when she had regained her place—and her face—she might send back to this crude little country and reward him. She would astonish them all with the realization they had had a queen among them, and didn't know how to treat her properly.

His talk of following her dream reminded her of her dream of the farm family. She asked the merchant about his friends, what sort of people they were. His words dismayed her.

Aye, they're the most generous folk, and it seems like whatever they give away, they get it back double. Nicest folks you ever want to meet. You'd think there are majjians watching over them. They do something nice and helpful, beyond what an ordinary man would expect, then something good falls on them. When bad things happen, they take it in stride, and whatever they lost is paid back double. Like they're being rewarded for suffering. He nodded for punctuation. That kind of thing happens to old Tom, regular as rain falling from the sky.

Merrigan made polite noises, and demurred when the merchant offered to tell her stories about Farmer Tom and his family. She had made a terrible mistake. She should have accepted their rough hospitality and gone home with them. They were such generous and goodhearted simpletons, she could have told them her entire sad story, and they would have helped her. They might have even pleaded her case with whatever majjian had taken the family under his protection, and mended her life for her.

That settled it. She had to go back. She asked the merchant to turn around and take her back, she had changed her mind and wanted to accept the family's invitation. He laughed for a moment. Why did people think it was all right to laugh at her?

I'll be glad to help you, Granny, but I have my route to keep. People are expecting me to deliver what they ordered. You can ride with us, but it'll be more than two moons before we get back to Tom's place. Is that all right with you?

What could she say? Of course it wasn't all right, but telling them that wouldn't do her any good. She didn't look like a queen, so who would tremble in fear of disappointing her? She thanked him and agreed.

At the next town, the merchant's big sons helped her down from the wagon and treated her to a fresh meat pie from their favorite vendor. Then she walked away without a word of goodbye. Perhaps she should have said thanks, but she feared they would try to stop her. Perhaps say she was crazy, like those brutes the day before. Merrigan set off for the far side of the merchants' square, where dozens of wagons were unloading, and pointed herself at a wagon that seemed aimed back the way she had come.

The world spun around her, the lights flickered and the ground slid from under her feet. Merrigan let out a most unqueenly shout.

Until you turn, you are forbidden to return, while ungrateful thoughts linger in your mind and pride in your heart, Clara whispered in her memory.

Merrigan landed on her knees in a patch of violets along the side of a tree-lined road. She heard nothing but the whisper of the wind through the leaves, and far off, the songs of sleepy birds. She turned around and settled on her bottom, drew her knees up to her chest, hid her face in her knees, and waited for the tears to come.

None came. Apparently, she was too wrinkled and dry and shriveled up to even cry in frustration.

So she wasn't allowed to go back, once she had turned her back on rustic hospitality and generosity? What common sense was there in that? Where was the justice in the world?

Fine, then. Have it your way. I'll find someone to take pity on me and help me, no matter how much you interfere, she whispered.

Such words would have had greater effect if she had leaped to her feet and stomped out of the violets and headed down the road. Merrigan was too tired, and somewhat achy from her landing, so she made herself comfortable and sat and thought for a time. When no wagons came down the road after nearly two hours, she got to her feet and resumed walking.

By nightfall, she found her way to a village small enough that people noticed the elderly stranger among them. They offered her shelter in the little building that served as a general meeting hall and chapel. The bread and butter, mug of milk and bowl of porridge provided weren't up to her standards, but she said nothing. Demanding better because she was a queen would earn her mockery. She curled up on the bench cushion the circuit judges used, wrapped herself in the blankets several people offered for the night, and told herself she was quite comfortable. She was, compared to how she could have spent the night.

She finally fell asleep, trying to persuade herself that she liked the silence and solitude. The porridge reminded her of her nursery days, before Nanny Starling fell from grace and Nanny Tulip took over. Her dreams were full of her long, secret, magical correspondence with Leffisand, and all the advice he had given her, helping her to grow wise and insightful, to become a queen worthy of him. He had taught her the truth behind all the tales of faeries and godmothers and other majjian folk. He claimed they were lies, sweetened to trick people into trusting magically gifted folk. The witless, ignorant and undeserving always expected to be helped, rather than picking themselves up by their own bootstraps and fighting for what they wanted.

As the days and moons passed while she journeyed, Merrigan thought long and hard about the things Leffisand and Nanny Tulip had taught her. The truth behind the tales of majjian folk. While she trudged from village to town, she had many chances to see majjian injustice at work. It galled her to realize some of the too-sweet-for-their-own good twits who helped her with a loaf of bread, a coin, a ride down the road, were often rewarded soon afterward.

If faeries were waiting around every corner to reward every village idiot and simpering twit for performing charity, why did none of them show up just ten minutes earlier and help her? She was Queen Merrigan of Carlion, daughter of King Urson and Queen Daylily of Avylyn. Surely she deserved their help.

By the third moon of her unfair exile on the other side of the world, Merrigan decided the imbeciles and goody-two-shoes of the world had an unfair advantage over the clever girls and boys who wouldn't stand for any nonsense. Granted, the sweet girls and boys were the ones who actually noticed the shriveled old woman in need of food or a place to spend the night. Several times she considered going back to tell them she was a queen under a terrible curse, and ask if they would put in a good word with the faerie or pixie or minor wizard who had just rewarded them.

Each time, she mentally slapped herself. Asking for the help that should have been hers by right galled her.

She chewed so long on the injustice that had been meted out to her, she got past the sharpness of the ache. She learned to examine the whole situation with less emotion, and tried to determine where the mistakes had occurred. Possibly, she had done something wrong. Of course, not anything bad enough to warrant what she now suffered. Perhaps she was being punished for something Leffisand did? Was being stupid a crime? Or perhaps her husband had been a little too clever, a little too lucky? Could he have brought his ignominious demise on himself because he had broken several rules of magic? She had been deprived of her throne, her home, her beauty, because of something he did?

She would be safely at home in Carlion if she had produced the heir to the throne. Could it be the fault hadn't been with her at all? Perhaps Leffisand was denied an heir because of underhanded things he had done? Things she knew nothing about? After all, she had heard the rumors. There was the whole magical apple tree debacle, and the accusations that Leffisand had been involved in the death of his first wife, Fialla. Merrigan didn't believe any of it, otherwise she never would have married him, but ... what if?

If that were the answer, it simply made her whole situation more unbearable. She suffered for the crimes of others. She had been robbed, cheated, when she was innocent of wrongdoing.

In the very next village, she looked at the villagers with new eyes, and watched their interactions, seeking the innocent and cheated among them. Surely there would be a kindred soul here? There had to be, since injustice filled the world.

She decided the blacksmith was dangerous. He had a thin smirk on his thick face, when he settled at the village well and watched the young people dancing that night. He had a way of looking at people that made her skin crawl. Merrigan asked the baker's daughter about the blacksmith the next morning, when the girl gave her fresh bread dripping with butter and honey. The girl looked in all directions before leaning closer to whisper that the blacksmith was new to their village. He had arrived last fall, claiming he was the long-lost younger brother of their smith, who had just died. No one could dispute him, because the brother had indeed been gone for nearly twenty years and no one could remember if he looked like his older brother or not.

They accepted him and let him take over the smithy. The four orphaned sons of the smith were only half-trained. They needed a teacher. The village needed a blacksmith. Nobody could fault the man, but nobody was entirely happy with him, either.

Merrigan did not believe in coincidences. Chances were the new smith had arranged for the death of the old one and came in to take his place. Probably by magic. That was just the way the world worked, according to Leffisand and Nanny Tulip.

The elderly, she had discovered by this time, were easily ignored. Merrigan settled under an apple tree where she could see and hear the activity at the smithy. Before the morning was half-gone, she was enraged at how the man ordered the four boys around, as if they were slaves. If she was right, he was a fraud, stealing their inheritance. Just like her kingdom had been stolen from her. She had to bite her tongue not to shout a command to stop, whenever he slapped the boys with the heavy leather gloves used for handling the hammer and tongs. Or when he swung a bar of red-hot iron perilously close to